


Pink

by Regrettablewritings



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 07:32:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16970409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regrettablewritings/pseuds/Regrettablewritings
Summary: In relatively recent history, pink has gone from being associated with strength to being seen as more of a docile color. But that hasn't stopped Rafael from including it in his everyday attire. Or you from getting ridiculously excited over what it means to you.





	Pink

Pink: For centuries, it was presented as a rich, raw color, one suited best for boys in its relation to the lively red. At some point in the early to mid-1900s, however, the shift from pink boys and blue girls to blue boys and pink girls happened, and it was socially suggested that pink, now standing for femininity, was a weak, delicate color best reserved for the decidedly more docile sex. Any man who dared to wear pink was either a sissy, or had to be a real, robust and rugged man to be able to pull it off.

While his personality was more sleek than robust and his appearance classy rather than gritty, you had no doubts whatsoever that Rafael was as real of a man as they came. You didn’t need his pink attire and accessories to tell you this, but the way he wore them surely didn’t slow down your belief in this whatsoever.

If you liked pink before, dating and eventually marrying Rafael had made you adore it: It striped some of his shirts and dominated others; it was the color of one of his many suspenders; it speckled quite a few ties in intricate designs, muted in pastel form on his pocket square. A bright, electric hue as his yachting shirt, much to your amusement. It was the color your cheeks would assume every time he complimented you, the color his face would turn whenever you praised your beloved husband for how incredible you found his work ethic. It was the color of the tie you’d picked out for him that morning as he dressed himself up for work, and it was the color of the roses he’d had delivered to your workplace yesterday, which were now placed in a glass vase centered at the kitchen table.

It was also the color of the two lines on the stick you’d been staring at for the past ten minutes.

It was funny, how pink was now commonly associated as being a more gentle, weaker color. Had the result of the test been blue, you would have shrugged it off, carried on with your day. But pink? That was a whole other situation. Pink was a strong color, one with the power to knock you to the floor, where you had been sitting for what seemed like ages, saying absolutely nothing. It winded you.

“… Holy shit.” The whisper, crude as it was, barely registered as a sound, yet it broke the silence of your bathroom like a sledgehammer to glass. Needless to say, a lot of seemingly small things were causing big impacts of sorts today. Starting with the little, jelly bean-sized thing that the test stated was dwelling inside you.

You and Rafael had spoken about the idea of starting a family, of course. It was simply the proper thing to do when intending to stick together for the long run. And while neither party was against the prospect, it wasn’t necessarily something you were actively looking to accomplish: “Que sera sera,” Rafi stated. All you had to do was wait and see what would happen, when it happened. Well, as signified by the pink of the pregnancy test, it happened. Soon, your cheeks, too, became rosy. Had the people from the apartment building across from yours looked at your dwelling space, they would have been able to observe you performing a rhythmless, aimless dance spanning from the bedroom to the living room. 

+++++++

 _But how to tell Rafi?_ you pondered. After your silly little joy dance had inevitably winded you, you decided to replenish your energy with a gracious helping of snacks. Particularly, the ones that Rafael would’ve scolded you for eating rather than a healthy lunch like any regular person would. You reasoned that it was fine for you to eat in such a way, being that you were now carrying for two.

 _Even more reason for you to eat_ healthily, _Cariño_ , the Rafael part of your mind chided.

 _Leave me alone, Rafi, lemme eat my Frosted Flakes in peace_ , you fussed right back. It was between crunches that you remembered what kind of man you married: Rafael may have been reasonable, but he was also a rather fussy man and one that was a bit hard to impress. He barely cracked a smile even when his toughest cases had breakthroughs for God’s sake! You had no doubts that Rafael would be excited about your little announcement, but you still wanted something impressionable. Something that’d knock the color right into his cheeks the way it knocked you to the floor for nearly twenty whole minutes. You didn’t even want to tempt the subsequent fussing you’d receive if you handed him the pregnancy test – that would only result in 10% excitement and 90% “You-Peed-on-This!”-ment.

You inwardly cursed yourself for marrying such a sophisticated man. If only he weren’t so uppity or with high expectations, maybe – 

“… Wait …”

+++++++

“They need me in court tomorrow morning,” Rafael sighed, collapsing onto the couch next to you. “But the case is basically open and shut at this point.”

“Mhmm,” you responded, eyes trained on your book. You hadn’t meant to come off as blasé, you really didn’t. Usually, you enjoyed offering an ear for Rafael to speak into. But you weren’t usually pregnant. The thrill and anxiousness of something new would always and forever cause an excitement within you that made everything else seem so … small. It was funny to think that your spouse’s work now seemed smaller compared to something that was only the size of a tiny piece of candy, but that was the truth. A very funny truth that threatened to be prematurely spilled if you didn’t try your darndest to keep your mouth shut long enough to suffocate the giggles that had been accumulating with every passing moment.

Unfortunately, Rafael’s legal eagle eyes caught your expression. He might be off the clock at the moment, but his lawyer mode was still very much active. Not that he needed much to notice that there was something … _off_ about you this evening. You were reading, which wasn’t unusual at all, but he highly doubted that there was anything in _A Clockwork Orange_ that would warrant the smile you were just barely able to bite back. But even beyond that, there was something else about you. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was almost as if what he was trying to place wasn’t even on the same wavelength as you and himself. Nevertheless, Rafael was never one to just let something of intrigue pass by.

“Cariño? You feeling alright?” His brows furrowed, concern seeping into his green eyes. You didn’t want to look into them to offer a reply, fearful that you’d snap and burst into laughter if you did. But if you wanted the plan to play out as you intended, you had to play the part.

You glanced at Rafael, skillfully morphing your potentially mischievous smile into an assuring one. “I’m fine, Rafi,” you gently insisted. “Why do you ask?”

You watched him press his mouth into a thin line of disbelief.

“Well, for starters, you’ve barely said anything in response to whatever I’ve been saying –”

“The case is in the bag – _your_ bag. You know I’m proud of you without having to say anything.”

“And that’s what’s weird: Usually you practically smother me with praises in these situations,” Rafael pointed out. The small smirk that played along his lips coaxed an eye roll from you.

“So you think something’s up because I’m not feeding your ‘big brass ego’?” was your sarcasm-coated response. _I’m already going to be dealing with someone big-headed_ , was what you _really_ wanted to say.

With what you _did_ say, however, Rafael gently huffed and continued his previous argument. “Anyway … What puzzles me most, mi amor, is that you seem a little … different.” The grin that threatened to practically break your face was presented as an intrigued smirk

“ ‘Different’? How so?” _Now you’re getting it_ , you mentally cooed.

Rafael licked his lips in thought. “Dunno. Did you switch lotions or something?”

“No, still the same lotion,” you responded. You returned your attention back to your literature in the hopes that it would pose as a buffer.

“Shampoo?”

You shook your head, “I didn’t even wash my hair today, Rafi.”

“… Did something happen?”

“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p.’

“Something you’re not telling me?”

You hummed a ‘no.’

“Mírame a los ojos y dilo,” he demanded, making you shudder. Dammit. He _knew_ what speaking Spanish did to you. _Especially_ when he used that demanding, lawyer tone of his. 

You prayed that he mistook the shudder for one of your usual pleasure, rather than one born out of anxiousness that you had been cornered. In the meantime, all you could do for yourself was turn to him, look him in his suspecting eyes, and calmly insist, “Rafael: I am _fine_. I just enjoyed my day off is all.” Before he could respond with anything else, you returned back to _A Clockwork Orange_ , signifying the end of that particular discussion.

Despite reading over the same sentence over and over for the last couple of minutes, you turned the page. You needed to land this façade just long enough. It was when you heard your husband sigh with exasperation that you knew your bid had been bought.

“Whatever,” he muttered. Getting himself up from the couch, he continued, “If you’re not going to tell me anything, then that’s your decision. I’m not going to humor this.”

You pouted, “Awwww. Don’t be grumpy, Rafaelito.” You glanced up from your book just long enough to see him try and fight off a somewhat amused grin.

“I’m not grumpy …” your better half said as he began to beeline for the bedroom. As soon as he was out of your sight and you his, you stopped trying to fight the smile that had been threatening to bloom all this time. Your brought your knees up to your chest so you could excitedly tap your feet against the couch cushions as if to perform the quietest dance imaginable. 

Rafael was a creature of habit, something that especially applied when in the comfort of his own home. You knew his morning routine to his eating habits to his evening routine. This meant knowing how he preferred to plot out most of his outfits for the next day the night before, suits, suspenders, etc. He’d usually let you choose the tie, but your tie of choice almost always correlated with the colorful socks he’d chosen to wear when he laid out his outfit in the first place. Like clockwork, you heard him entering his closet, shuffling things around. You heard the screech of hangers sliding across the support bar, the click of his tongue as he contemplated suit jackets and dress shirts.

Normally, these sounds would fall on deaf ears. But right now, they were blaring. They were agonizing, a mere obstacle.

Then you heard the soft click of Rafael opening up his cufflink trunk, followed by the quiet tingling sound of fingers brushing over the tiny accessories. The clack of his selection being placed on the dresser told you that what you were waiting most on was set to occur.

It was the hushed, dragging noise of his sock drawer that caused your heart to skip more than just a single beat. By the time your heart returned back to beating at all, it was sputtering and sprinting with eagerness. You inhaled deeply and held your breath in, not wanting a single noise to distract from what you had been evening for. Straining your ears, you heard the expected sounds: The soft rearranging of socks as Rafael inspected pair after pair to search for the perfect ones to coordinate with tomorrow’s attire. Maybe the low knock of his knuckle hitting the tray’s wooden wall. It was a lenient, yet still purposeful pace. One that had been ritualized by its performer for eons to the point of being almost completely blasé about the action.

It was therefore quite telling when you heard the shuffling suddenly stop.

You inhaled sharply, causing your lungs to practically beg you to stop as they had long since reached capacity. Your heart and mind, on the other hand, screamed in giddy unison. The exhale that shuttered out of your body was the only noise that was made for what felt like longer than a minute. No noise came from you, otherwise. And certainly no noise came from the bedroom. Not even the sound of the sock drawer closing. And then, footsteps. Not slow ones, and not running ones. But ones filled with drive. Ones that practically thundered down the small hallway, growing louder and louder until they stopped right where the threshold between the living room and the corridor met.

“Ca … Cariño,” you heard Rafael whisper. You didn’t dare turn around, but you also couldn’t pretend for much longer. You opted for hiding your face in your knees, gently biting your bottom lip to keep it from quivering into a smile.

“Cariño, I …” He stopped talking, taking a silent gulp. You took note in the tone with which he spoke: It was present, and yet on a different plane. If glazed eyes could be in a voice, that was the voice Rafael was speaking in. It was weird. It was uncharacteristic… . It was _exactly_ what you wanted!

“Yes, Rafaelito?” you said quietly. It was then that you allowed yourself to finally smile. As you slowly turned to face your husband, it threatened to become a slightly wettened one.

There he stood, eyes directed unblinkingly at you, yet spacious all at once. It was an unusual look for Rafael, who usually looked so well-grounded and calm. Making the sight before you all the more peculiar was the pair of itty, bitty, pink-brown-and-cream argyle socks he held delicately in his hands.

Rafael continued to stare at you with glassy eyes, continued to gulp and open and shut his mouth in a constant struggle of finding the right words.

“I … I think my socks might’ve shrunk in … in the wash …” was the final result. And you couldn’t be happier with it.

You giggled and shook your head, “No, Rafael. I don’t think those socks are yours.” You watched and heard the sharp intake of breath that followed in heed of your response.

“… An … And these are real?” he pressed. His voice picked up an octave near the sentence’s end, accompanying a corner of his mouth turning up.

At this point, the toothy smile you had been bearing before closed itself tightly. If it didn’t, then the tears beginning to streak down your face would’ve gotten into it. You couldn’t speak, due to the lump in your throat. But based on the completion of Rafael’s smile, your high pitched hum of approval and the slow nod of your head was enough.

You were a little too preoccupied with wiping away your tears to notice when Rafael had gone to your side, tiny dress socks in hand. It only came to your acknowledgment once you felt his hands cup your face, the teensy socks still in their grasp. You didn’t mind having the soft, pastel cotton against your face, making you feel delicate and warm. The pleasant feeling was only enhanced as kisses began to speckle your cheeks, forehead, and lips in a fervent manner, leaving no part of your face untouched. Between every peck was an assortment of phrases going in and out of English, the excitement apparently flustering your husband into elated Spanish. You couldn’t understand much of what he said (mainly because it was said so rapidly that you didn’t have time to piece it together before the next kiss). But for now, it didn’t matter.

You just wanted to bask in this moment, where you were embraced in your wonderful husband’s arms, getting smothered by kisses, gazing lovingly at the tiny pair of socks you two held together, both of your faces glowing with jubilation.

Pink: In modern society, it was associated with being delicate and undesirable for deepened impact. But you knew better. Pink was the color of Rafael’s tie that day, the color of the roses that he’d sent to you the day before. It was the color his cheeks turned out of absolute joy and pride that evening as he continued to hold you in his adoring embrace, as well as your own with every kiss he continued to give you for the next few hours. It was the color of newborns, the color of a few diamonds on what would be your child’s first pair of socks (which prompted Rafael to insist that you would have the best dressed baby in New York). Pink meant fresh starts, love, and exhilaration.

Pink, you determined, was a very strong, beautiful color indeed.


End file.
